


Haunted

by SassyEggs



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, btvs, ghost story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-08
Updated: 2015-08-19
Packaged: 2018-04-13 16:32:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 12,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4529094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SassyEggs/pseuds/SassyEggs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something very strange is happening in the Red Keep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Very heavily inspired by the BtVS episode "I Only Have Eyes For You"

The first time it happened, it was easy to ignore.

She could feel the Hound’s watchful eyes on her back, but his gaze no longer bothered her. Well… perhaps it still bothered her some, but not near as much as before. He never really said much of anything to her when he escorted her, which was probably for the best, since when he did speak it was usually something cynical or hateful. The few times he’d spoken to her with any sort of decency he’d immediately followed it up with so much vitriol she’d wondered if he did it intentionally to counteract his kindness. Didn’t want the prisoner to get any ideas, after all.

Even now, walking back to her chambers with the not-a-knight at her back, she thought of the stories he’d told to her, of his brother, of his grandfather, of his life with the Lannisters. She wondered if he had ever told anyone else those stories; she rather thought he hadn’t.

Since the night he’d found her sneaking back from the godswood, she’d felt much more comfortable in his presence, though perhaps she shouldn’t. He was always threatening her in one way or another, but after all this time they felt less like true threats and more like his awkward way of making conversation. So she didn’t mind them, not really, though she didn’t particularly like them. But she would much rather have him escort her than almost any of the other Kingsguard. Walking in silence, knowing he was behind her, didn’t cause the attack of butterflies she used to feel. Now… no, now she felt at ease.

Until they reached her room. She stopped at her threshold, like she always did; and he opened the door for her, like he always did. But before she could enter, her body and mind were flooded with a spike of anxiety, and she could feel her pulse quickening even though nothing of import had happened.

“Words!” he barked, his arm dropping in front of her as his hand slammed into the wall, blocking her from entering her room. She saw him from the corner of her eye, bending towards her to put his mouth to her ear. “Words are wind, my love,” he growled softly, huskily, sending an unfamiliar wave of heat throughout her body.

So many different emotions were battling for supremacy within her, none of which she had felt mere moments before. There was the ache of loss, the sorrow of acceptance, a stab of fear; then just as suddenly as the tension descended, it retreated, flowing out of her as sure as the tide. She could _feel_ the difference in both of them, and saw his arm relax and drop from her path. When she looked at him, she saw he was just as baffled as she was. And after a moment he nodded slightly and muttered “Lady Sansa,” before turning from her and stalking away, not once meeting her eyes.

_What was that?_


	2. Chapter 2

They didn’t speak of it. What would they say? Sorry about that strange encounter we had? No, better not to speak of it. It wasn’t like it made much sense, anyway. He told her words are wind and really, that wasn’t something she could argue with since it was a common saying in Westeros.  Why did it matter if he felt like saying it, at that moment, for no particular reason?

_He did call me his love._

That was confusing as well, yet somehow completely normal considering the entire situation. He hadn’t meant it- it was as if he were talking to someone else when he spoke, so how could she hold him to the things he’d said to _her?_

And so they had apparently made the mutual decision to ignore it, as inconsequential as it was; but that didn’t stop the tiny flicker of concern the next time Joffrey ordered the Hound to escort her back to her room.

He was behind her, as usual. Nothing was different between them, nothing at all. He was still silent, his eyes were still at her back; everything was entirely as it should be. But as they approached her room she could feel the same wave of emotions flurrying about before enveloping her in panic and despair.    

“Words!” he barked, his arm dropping in front of her as his hand slammed into the wall, blocking her from entering her room. She saw him from the corner of her eye, bending towards her to put his mouth to her ear. “Words are wind, my love,” he growled.

Some force made her turn her eyes up to him, taking in his angry sneer and narrowed eyes, and she heard her own voice pleading. “It’s more than that. How can you doubt me?” These were not her words. These were not her thoughts or actions, her body was not doing as she asked it to when she took his hand in hers and pressed it over her heart.

“Can’t you _feel_ it?” she asked him breathlessly, urging him with her eyes to understand. “I’d stay here forever with you, if I could. I’d spend my life taking care of you, if I could. But I can’t.”

He dropped his hand from her doorway and slid it over her hip, pulling her towards him. She could tell he was angry by the way he was shaking but his eyes still blazed in anguish, even as his fingers curled and stroked the swell of her breast. “Damn you, woman,” he growled through clenched teeth.

She felt like crying, sorrow gripping her heart overwhelmingly, and unfamiliar words on her tongue waiting to be spoken. But then the grip was gone, the sorrow replaced with confusion, and she was left blinking at him as they released their respective holds on the other.  

He looked baffled, too, and he leveled his gaze at her before speaking with none of his usual bite. “What have you done?”

 _Why would he…_ “Nothing!”

He searched her eyes with his own and she knew he could see the truth in them, knew he could see as much confusion in her as she could see in him. And after a moment he motioned for her to enter her room and closed the door for her, leaving without another word.

They didn’t speak of it. What would they say?  

 


	3. Chapter 3

A sennight passed before it happened again.

When Joffrey dismissed her this time and ordered the Hound to escort her, they both hesitated. And then, after they were out of the throne room and she looked up at him, she knew he wanted nothing more than to send her on alone. Instead, he motioned her onward with a nod of his head, and they started towards her chambers, just a little slower than usual.

_Maybe he doesn’t have to walk all the way there. Maybe he can just watch from a distance. Maybe then nothing will happen._ It seemed like a logical plan. She’d send him away as soon as they reached her hall and continue on alone.

They were nearly to her room by then, and she was about to dismiss him, when the corridor became noticeably colder and the unwanted but now-familiar feelings rolled into her body. Her legs became leaden and she came to a stop, then spun quickly to face him.

“Don’t forget me,” she urged him, feeling as if her heart was breaking. “Promise you won’t, and I’ll not forget you, either.”

He took several steps toward her, eyes blazing in fury. “Liar!”

“I’m not lying,” she insisted. She reached for his hand, but he pulled it away.

“You’re still _leaving_ ,” he snarled.

She felt helpless, and not because she’d lost control of her body and tongue. She felt helpless because she couldn’t make him _understand_. “I have to,” she whispered breathlessly. “That doesn’t mean I don’t love you.”

“It does if you’re leaving me,” he snarled at her, still angry, but also… oh gods, but he looked so _sad_.

“That’s not fair. _You_ are the one who is incapable of giving me what I want. I’ve given you far more than you’ve given me.”

She turned and walked quickly towards her room again, but he caught up with her. “You’ve given me words. Words!” he barked, his hand slammed into the wall, blocking her from entering her room, and he bent to put his mouth to her ear. “Words are wind, my love,” he growled.

“It’s more than that. How can you doubt me?” She took his hand in hers and pressed it to her heart.   “Can’t you feel it? I’d stay here forever with you, if I could. I’d spend my life taking care of you, if I could. But I can’t.”

He grabbed her hip and pulled her closer, growling at her as stroked the top of her breast. “Damn you, woman.”

He closed his eyes for only a moment, but then the moment passed, taking with it the strange emotions that had claimed them both. His eyes snapped open and he yanked away from her, a look of horror on his face, as they examined each other for a sign of… something… anything.

“What _is_ that?” she asked him, though she doubted he knew any more than she did.

He shook his head and opened her door. They needed to talk about this, she knew, but the way he pressed his lips together and avoided her eyes definitely led her to believe he wasn’t ready to discuss it. So she walked into her chambers and he closed the door behind her without a word. Again.


	4. Chapter 4

The very next day had been a bad one. A _terrible_ one. Robb apparently had some sort of victory that made Joffrey angry, and he’d taken his frustrations out on his betrothed. She was so distracted by fear that she’d paid no mind to the fact that the Hound had escorted her- uneventfully- to the throne room.

She didn’t think about it later, either, when Tyrion was escorting her back to her chambers, wrapped indecently in the Hound’s cloak, the garment dragging on the ground behind her. She didn’t notice when the air became cooler and her pulse quickened alarmingly, and instead pulled the cloak tighter around herself, noting how his scent and his warmth still remained. So it took her by surprise when the strange jumble of emotions started to envelop her… then blew right by like a stray wind in the corridor.

“Whew,” Tyrion shivered beside her. “It’s chilly today.”

“Indeed, my lord,” she muttered down at him, relieved, grateful, and… a little confused that this time the ghosts hadn’t lingered.

The day after found her being escorted by none other than Ser Boros Blount, and she spent the entire walk to her room in fear of what would happen. _Would_ it happen? It was odd, now, that once it started happening with the Hound, she didn’t want it to happen with anyone else, if it happened at all. But her worrying had been for naught- she’d arrived at her chambers without a single noteworthy incident.

Standing alone in her room, she decided that one of two things could possibly be true: either the strange events wouldn’t be happening any more, or they would only ever happen with the Hound. And while it was preferable that the events stopped altogether, she also felt like it maybe wouldn’t be the worst thing if it happened again. These… spirits… had chosen her for a reason, she knew, and she was certain they meant no harm. And sure, the way he put his hands on her was wildly inappropriate, and she hated it, just like she was supposed to, but at the same time… it was just so very _romantic!_ Almost like a song.

So she wasn’t _truly_ concerned when he escorted her again, eyes at her back, because she didn’t _truly_ think anything too terrible could happen. And when she saw the lights get brighter and felt the air grow colder, she knew what was happening and didn’t _truly_ mind.  

“You would leave me now?” he growled angrily behind her. “After everything?”

Sansa smiled knowingly when the feelings flowed into her and whirled around to face him. “I _have_ to leave,” she insisted breathlessly. “Why would I stay?”

“Stay for _me,”_ he exclaimed, as if it were obvious. “Am I not good enough?”

“That’s not it, and you know it,” she asserted, anger rising up inside her. “It’s just too hard to be here, seeing you, knowing I can never have you. Just… don’t forget me. Promise you won’t, and I’ll not forget you, either.

He took several steps toward her, eyes blazing in fury. “Liar!”

“I’m not lying,” she insisted. She reached for his hand, but he pulled it away.

“You’re still _leaving_ ,” he snarled.

“I _have_ to,” she whispered urgently. “That doesn’t mean I don’t love you.”

“It does if you’re leaving me,” he snarled at her.

“That’s not fair. _You_ are the one who is incapable of giving me what I want. I’ve given you far more than you’ve given me.” She turned to walk away, but he caught up with her quickly.

“You’ve given me words. Words!” He slammed his hand into the threshold to block her path and bent towards her ear. “Words are wind, my love.”

“It’s more than that. How can you doubt me?” She lifted his hand and pressed it over her heart. “Can’t you feel it? I’d stay here forever with you, if...”

The door to her chambers flew open revealing a very confused and _very_ concerned Shae, and the feelings left Sansa so abruptly they stole her breath. The Hound was gasping and coughing beside her, and they pushed away from each other as hastily as lovers caught unawares… which, in a way, was exactly what they were.

“Is something wrong?” the handmaid drawled suspiciously. Sansa could only gape at her while the Hound turned and stalked away.

Shae grabbed the girl by the arm and hauled her into the bedroom. “What did he _do?”_ the woman hissed at her.

“Nothing! He didn’t… oh, Shae, the strangest things have been happening!”

It all came out of her before she could stop it: the feelings that weren’t her own, the actions she couldn’t explain, the way it only ever happened with the Hound and always right outside her door. The handmaid did not comment about the things the girl told her, and kept her face impassive as she listened in abject silence. It wasn’t till she offered her recommendation that Sansa even got the idea that Shae believed her.

“You need to stay away from your Hound,” the woman sniffed haughtily.

“ _Why?”_ Sansa protested like a child, and instantly regretted it. Admitting to herself that she liked the ghostly intrusions was one thing, but admitting it to someone else was something she wasn’t ready to do. “It’s just…” she started, trying to recover. “He can’t hurt me when it’s happening, so there’s really nothing to worry about.”

 _He wouldn’t hurt me anyway_ , she added silently, though she wasn’t entirely certain what made her so sure of it. Was that another part of the ghost?

“If these ghosts were romantic with each other, then they might make you do things you shouldn’t be doing,” Shae countered logically and… convincingly. Sansa had very conveniently left out the parts where she put his hand on her chest, and how he gripped her hip and pulled her close in a far-too-familiar way. If that was the worst of it… well, she could accept that, though she knew she shouldn’t. But she never felt fear or shame or disgust when it happened, so how could she be expected to feel those things now?

“I wonder what happened to them,” the girl mused, just to change the subject. “Did they stay together, or did they part? Did they find love again? Did they go to their graves regretting their decisions?” She looked over at her handmaid to judge her reaction, but the woman revealed nothing, so she went ahead and asked the question she really wanted to ask. “Do you think you can find out for me? No one will talk to me, or I’d try to find out myself.”

Shae huffed a small laugh and shook her head. “That seems like an impossible task, my lady. Two lovers arguing in the corridor is hardly a unique story in the Red Keep.”

“I know,” Sansa agreed meekly. “But… I need to know who they were, and what happened to them. I… think I’m supposed to help, somehow.”

This time Shae let out a big sigh in open exasperation. “I’ll try,” she said, though not happily. “I’ll ask around, but I can’t promise anything. And you… you have to promise to be careful. Don’t be alone with him if you can avoid it.”

Shae was so serious and so stern, it reminded Sansa too much of her mother. So she didn’t argue with her, because she knew she was right. When she found out just who these ghosts were she’d do whatever she had to in order to help, and things between her and the Hound could go back to the way they used to be.

Falling asleep later that night, she wondered why she thought that would be a good thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying to pick up the proverbial pace here so no one gets too bored, hopefully this chapter was more exciting.


	5. Chapter 5

“Dog, see her back to her room.”

Sansa could feel her eyes go wide and her entire body stiffen in apprehension. Joffrey laughed loudly.

“Oh, does that displease you, my lady?” the king sneered.

“No,” she answered quickly, though not very convincingly. “Thank you, your Grace.” With a small but perfectly- executed curtsy, she hurried out of the throne room, the Hound only a few steps behind. They both stopped just outside the door, though, neither one making a single move towards her chambers. And after several tense moments, he finally broke the silence.

“You’re a terrible liar.”

She looked up at him in confusion. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to,” he rasped derisively. “Your thoughts are all over your face.”

Sansa pressed her lips together and scowled at him but didn’t look away. And they still didn’t make any effort to leave the corridor to return her to her room. He’d made it very clear that he didn’t like what was happening to them, and while she didn’t really mind it she was reluctant to admit it. So she let him believe she disliked it too, even though… well, it really was very exciting!

“Has it happened… to you… any other…?”

He shook his head before returning the question. “You?”

“No,” she replied softly. “I… I’ve been escorted to my room… by others… but…”

She didn’t finish. She _couldn’t_ finish, but she didn’t have to, he realized immediately what she was saying and cursed under his breath without looking at her. He seemed enormously displeased about this latest revelation, but he still seemed calmer than she was used to seeing him.

“Is there anywhere else you want to go?”

He was looking down his nose at her with an almost sleepy expression, and she understood what he was thinking: maybe if they avoided her room altogether they could avoid all the rest of it. And while there was no guarantee this would prevent the odd events, it seemed like it was worth a try.

“The godswood?” she suggested.

He rolled his eyes and huffed once in protest- at what, she didn’t know- but motioned for her to go. So she did, making her way towards the godswood, with him behind her, eyes on her back, just as always.

They met no one on their way, not a single soul, but the strange emotions were kept in check. Maybe he was right, that it only happened in the corridor outside her chambers. Maybe it was associated with the room she was staying in. Maybe there was a story there that she could learn, one that hopefully had a happy ending. She was so engrossed in the idea of a beautiful love story unfolding in her bedchamber that she hardly noticed that the Hound had stopped walking. Until he started speaking.

“I’m not asking for much,” he rasped angrily behind her. “I just want you to stay.”

She spun quickly to face him, baffled, but before she could even try to comprehend his strange comments or the confusion she felt, she was overcome with sorrow and longing and helplessness. “I _can’t_ stay,” she heard herself say, and moved towards him. “Come with me.”

He recoiled as if he’d been struck, and looked momentarily stunned before finally answering. “I can’t, I took vows,” he insisted, and she could see the plea in his eyes, a plea for her understanding. But her body and mind only registered irritation, and she huffed and crossed her arms. “Don’t do that.”

She took several unwanted steps towards him till she was looking straight up into his eyes. “You try to shame me for leaving but I can’t shame you for staying?”

“It’s different,” he grumbled, lifting one hand to her waist as the other brushed her hair from her face. His eyes showed untold anguish, and anger and… something else. “I’d be hunted down as a traitor. You too. We’d never be safe.”

She put one of her hands on his chest, right over his heart like he had done to her. “We can go to Dorne. Or Braavos. Somewhere that doesn’t know us. We could be anyone we want to be. We can be together.”

He moved his hands to her back, pulled her closer, fire burning into her skin wherever he touched her. “We don’t have the coin for that,” he muttered with a shake of his head.

“We can work.”

He looked at her with so much tenderness and sorrow her breath caught in her throat. “No. You deserve better than that.”

“Better than being with the one I love?” she pleaded as tears began to fall. “How could anything be better than that?”

He was conflicted, she could tell, and for a while they stood in silence while he considered her proposal, her hands resting lightly on his chest while his ran firmly up and down her back. But ultimately he shook his head before turning his eyes to her. “I can’t. Stay with me,” he begged.

“Come with me,” she countered. “We can go right now. Please. Come with me.”

“I can’t,” he insisted.

“You can,” she cried, and took his hands in her own. “You can. Please.”

She pulled as hard as she could, desperate to make him come, desperate to keep him with her, forever, but he was as heavy and stubborn as an aurochs and remained unmoved. And as her hands finally fell from his and she turned from him in defeat, the ghosts left, and she was once again gaping in confusion.

“Fuck!”

The Hound was _furious_ ; he drew his sword and began swinging violently at the nearest tree in frustration, sending leaves and bits of wood flying in all directions.

If Sansa had a sword, she would have done the same. Instead, she left him in the godswood and fled to her room, alone.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So remember how I said I was gonna be going off-script? Yeah...  
> \-------------

They steadfastly avoided each other after that. Any time Joffrey told the Hound to escort her, they would simply ignore the directive, and she would wander off to her location alone while he ran off to find wine. Presumably. She didn’t really know what he did, since they refused to talk about it.

So maybe it shouldn’t have been a surprise that the ghosts began invading her dreams instead. It made sense, in a way, that by denying them the outlet they had chosen they had simply moved on to the next best thing. What _didn’t_ make sense was why they still chose to possess other bodies, even in her dreams, though that was definitely what they were doing- it was the Hound’s scarred lips on her neck every night, those were her breasts he ran his hands over, her own gasps and sighs... it was incredibly inappropriate, though she reminded herself often that she wasn’t doing it intentionally. It wasn’t like she went to bed each night hoping for it, and she certainly didn’t think about it when she was awake. Much. No, when she was awake she acted as she was supposed to, and he acted as he always had, and they treated each other with all the warmth of two complete strangers determined to ignore each other.  

But oh, the things they did while she was _asleep!_

It always started with a lingering kiss, deep and warm and almost sweet, his tongue exploring her mouth with a tenderness she doubted the Hound was truly capable of. And then he would lower her carefully to her bed, his hands caressing her thighs with a gentle touch, as if she might break, as if afraid he might scare her. He was always gentle in her dreams, touching and kissing her reverently, even as his fingers carefully undid her laces and his hands and mouth wandered over her body. If it wasn’t for the fog of sleep reminding her that this was a dream then she might have felt frightened, but as it was, the only things she felt were love and desire. It didn’t even seem strange that she would feel that way with the Hound.   

It never hurt when he entered her, though she knew that it should, had always been told that it would. But it didn’t; quite the opposite. In her dreams, there was no pain or fear or nervousness, just an overwhelming feeling of relief, like something completed that had been too long undone. And she’d look up into his piercing silver eyes as he thrust into her, her fingers running over the scars on his back, and he would groan and shudder and spill inside her, and she would stroke his hair and call him ‘my love.’ Then she’d wake at morning light, confused and ashamed and determined not to think of it, and quickly change her small clothes before Shae arrived.

One time she woke while it was still dark, the keep all around her silent. Or _almost_ silent. Out in the corridor she could hear voices, a man and a woman, having what sounded like an urgent conversation. But who could be talking at this hour? Even the servants knew better than to stand in the hall and talk while the lords and ladies were sleeping.

 _“Words!”_ she heard through the door, followed by the sound of a hand slamming into the threshold. She could hear a man’s voice growling softly, and then the woman’s muffled reply, both too low to make out completely. But she already knew the reply; she’d already had that conversation. And now someone else was out there, saying the same things she’d said, experiencing the same things she had.

As scared as she was, her curiosity won out, and she crept from her bed to the door, cracking it open just enough to peek out. The corridor was bathed in light, as if it were the middle of the day, and colder than usual, and she realized immediately that this was not a possession but the ghosts themselves having the argument that she’d been having with the Hound.

“No. No, please,” she heard a woman say, though she couldn’t see her. “I can’t _do_ this anymore. Don’t you understand? You cannot ask for more when you won’t give it, either.”

Sansa pushed the door open a little wider till she could see them, the woman and the knight who’d recently begun controlling her thoughts and actions. And they were _beautiful_. The woman wore a simple woolen travel dress of hunter green, her dark brown hair fell in loose waves around a perfect heart-shaped face, warm brown eyes looking up at the man. But the _man._ He was the most handsome man she had ever seen, even more comely than Ser Loras, with black hair he wore down to his shoulders, square jaw set in determination and flowing white cloak covering his pure white armor. _He’s Kingsguard! That was why they could never be together!_

“You can’t say that you love me then leave!” the knight exclaimed angrily.

Their voices faded enough that Sansa couldn’t hear what they were saying, but she already _knew_ what they were saying. So she only watched them instead. Saw the pleading way she looked at him, the way he shook his head first in determination, then resignation. She saw him caress her cheek, hands flitting about the other’s body as if committing it to memory.   

They looked so beautiful together, so perfect, like they _belonged_ to each other. The lady grabbed her knight’s hands and tugged at him, begging him, but he remained in place till she finally pulled away, turning and fleeing as her tears fell.    

 _No!_ Sansa wanted to yell at them. _No! Don’t you see? It’s just like in the songs!_ But she couldn’t say anything, and knew they wouldn’t listen to her anyway. It wasn’t fair! How could two people who so clearly loved each other just throw it all away? Why couldn’t the woman just stay?

 _No! You must stay!_ she sobbed in her dreams. “You must stay.”

“My lady,” she heard a familiar voice calling her. “Lady Sansa, please, wake up.”

When Sansa opened her eyes she was back in her bed, the sun was shining, and Shae was gently shaking her by the shoulders. “You’re all right now, my lady, it was just a dream.”

“He was Kingsguard!” Sansa gasped, breathless from what she’d just witnessed. “Oh Shae- I have to know what happened to them. I have to help them make it right!”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many, many thanks to AdultOrphan for her creative guidance and her gentle nudge in the right direction. It only took about four thousand emails to do it, too, lol.  
> __________

If she thought their shared experience would somehow make him kinder towards her, she was sadly mistaken. He was just as disagreeable as usual, just as mean and spiteful and hateful… when others were around. Any time they were alone, though, he looked askance at her as if trying to figure her out but mostly stayed silent. And then he’d stalk off somewhere before anything could happen.

She wondered if he was having the same visions at night that she’d been having, but the idea of it was too horrifying to consider further. Besides, the dreams had had an almost calming effect on her- she was tired, yes, but somehow more relaxed, almost at peace. The Hound, on the other hand, had become more and more agitated with every passing day.

So no, he probably _wasn’t_ having the same dreams as her, he was likely just upset about losing control. A big warrior like him, surely, was not used to having someone else- some _thing_ else- control his words and actions. And she understood that, to some extent, even though she was small and weak and quite used to being controlled. But the truth was she found the entire thing terribly romantic. The words they said to each other, the way he looked at her, the way she felt when it happened… it felt like she was living a song, some heartbreaking tale of lovers desperate to be together when the rest of the kingdom wouldn’t let them. She wondered, often, whatever happened to them. Did the woman truly leave? Did the knight go with her? What tragic mistake were they trying to remedy?

“He killed himself.”  

It took Sansa several heartbeats before she realized what Shae was talking about, and then she felt as heartbroken as if she knew the man personally.

“Why would he _do_ that?” she asked with a gasp.

“No one knows for _sure,_ ” the handmaid told her. “His name was Ser Olyvar Giles, Kingsguard for Daeron the Good, and on the same day he died, there was a slaughter in Flea Bottom. One Lady Willow Tarbeck, a young widow from the Crag, was just leaving the city to return home, a man in her party insulted a man on the streets, they started arguing, swords were drawn… by the time the fighting was contained, the lady and many others were dead. Within the hour, your gallant Ser Olyvar had leapt to his death. But not from the White Sword Tower, as you might guess, or even from the highest tower. No, he jumped from the window of the room Lady Willow had been staying in.”

“How… can you possibly know that?”

“It’s in the book.” Sansa raised a curious eyebrow at her handmaid. “The White Book. Where they write all the information about the Kingsguard.”

“You saw the _White Book?_ How?”

Shae smiled slyly. “I have my ways.”

“But… why would they write about what happened to Lady Willow in the White Book?”

The woman’s expression turned mischievous as she explained her theory. “Whoever wrote it obviously thought these two events were related or he wouldn’t have included both of them. So clearly our lovers weren’t as discreet as they thought they were.”

Sansa sat thinking for a moment. “Do you think this is the room?”

“Might be,” Shae shrugged. “No way of knowing for sure, but it could have been. Doesn’t really matter, though, does it?”

“I guess not,” Sansa reflected as everything started to make sense. “How sad- she died out on the streets after having their argument, and he leapt from the window of her room because he was bereft with guilt and regret. It’s… well, it’s sort of romantic, isn’t it?”

Shae snorted, sounding remarkably like the Hound when she did it. “They died under tragic circumstances and have spent the past hundred years trying to make it right. How is that romantic?”

“I don’t know,” the girl responded weakly. “But… it’s like a song, right?”

“Sure,” the woman agreed, though she obviously didn’t mean it. “A _sad_ song.”

Sansa had no response to that; it _was_ a sad story, no matter how you looked at it. “So… what are we supposed to do? What do they want from us?”

“I don’t know,” the handmaid said. “Maybe your Hound needs to make the knight go with his lady.”

“Or maybe I need to make the lady stay.”

Shae shook her head. “If he had gone with her, he could have protected her.”

“He couldn’t have gone with her. He was _Kingsguard_ , he took vows. She should have stayed.”

“He could’ve at least escorted her out of the city. That wouldn’t break any vows, and he would be there to protect her.”

Sansa nodded thoughtfully, but wasn’t fully convinced. “Why do you think they chose us? Me… and him?”

“Who else would they choose?” Shae asked as if the point was moot.

“It’s been a hundred years, Shae, they could have chosen _anyone_.”

And that was the rub, really. The ghosts had chosen to inhabit them, but it wasn’t them individually. For some reason, they had chosen them together. And it was possible that they were the only ones they’d _ever_ chosen.

“There’s something about you, I suppose,” her handmaid said softly. “Something that makes them think you’ll understand.”

“But I _don’t_ understand,” Sansa insisted. “If she wanted him, she should have stayed. She should never have left, and she should never have asked him to leave with her. He took _vows_. What kind of woman asks a man to go back on his vows, especially a man that she loved?”

“But… you think it’s romantic,” Shae countered logically, and Sansa couldn’t really argue with that. “So maybe they chose you because you sympathize, and they chose your Hound because he’s supposed to help you in some way.”

Sansa blinked at the woman in confusion, then shook her head. “That’s not how it works, Shae. If they’re here instead of moving on, then they have some mistake they're trying to undo.”

“I know that, my lady,” the handmaiden insisted with just a hint of sarcasm. “I’m saying that maybe _you_ are the one with the mistake that needs to be undone _.”_

She hadn’t thought of it that way. And it was a lovely idea, in theory, that someone- _anyone_ \- would be so concerned about her that they were willing to haunt her to help her. The heavens knew that no one who was _living_ wanted to help her so much. But her mistakes were already past her, and as much as she wished with all her heart that they could be undone, she knew in the end that she was stuck. No, it must be that the ghosts needed help. But what could they do?

“I think we need to somehow make one of them change their decision,” she told Shae. “I’ll have to talk to the Hound so he knows, but next time it happens I’ll try to make her stay, and he can try to make the knight leave. And if either one of us can successfully convince the other, then maybe our ghosts will be able to rest.”

She didn’t speak aloud her immediate concern- she truly _did_ lose control when it happened, and she didn’t think it was possible for her to change the ghost’s decision. But the Hound was stronger than her- much stronger- so surely he could break out of the ghost’s hold on him and let her lead him away. And maybe, if he could, it would finally give the spirits the peace they were seeking.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope this is a satisfactory explanation, I tried to keep it simple enough to discover and explain. I seriously thought about using canon characters but just couldn't make it work right, but if anyone is interested I encourage you to look up the charming little tale of Terrence Toyne and Bethany Bracken. And by 'charming' I mean 'horrifying.'
> 
> And I hope you all recognize the names I used, even if they ARE original characters.


	8. Chapter 8

“That’s the stupidest buggering thing I’ve ever heard.”

They were standing outside the throne room after being dismissed. She had decided to break their unspoken rule about completely ignoring the problem, and judging by the way he was glaring at her he was definitely certainly unhappy about it.

“All right, then, what is _your_ explanation?”

He only shook his head, lip curling into a sneer. “You’re telling me that these two people…”

“…lovers…” she clarified. It was an important distinction, she was certain.

“These two _lovers_ are angry that they didn’t … what, _stay_ together? And now they’re… what, trying to make it _right_?”

“Yes, exactly,” she said, pleased he understood. “So when I ask you to come with me, just… come with me.” It was such a simple request, this could not be too much to ask.

His eyes narrowed and she was sure she could hear a quiet growl rumbling from his chest, but… it didn’t bother her. Nothing he did bothered her much anymore, not when he’d had his hand over her heart and she’d looked in his eyes and told him she loved him, and _definitely_ not after the things they’d done in her dreams, though she didn’t really like to think about that. Not often, at least. And while she knew none of that was real, didn’t even feel real, it was enough to shift her perception of him. So she smiled sweetly as if to tell him everything would be fine, like her mother used to do, but he just shook his head.

“I can’t,” he said firmly and flatly.

Sansa was crestfallen, but did her best to hide it. “I… I know it doesn’t make sense. He was right not to go, he said vows, but…”

“Bugger the vows,” the Hound sneered. “Vows are shit. He should have gone.”

“He should _not_ have gone,” she responded angrily. “He was right. And I will _try_ to make her stay, I just don’t know if I can do it, so you’re going to have to come with me, and if we can...”

“No, _she_ was right,” he snarled at her, showing a surprising amount of passion for the topic. “If they wanted to be together then they had to leave.”

“He _couldn’t_ leave!” she insisted, her voice rising. “He took _vows.”_

_“Bugger the vows!”_

The door opened beside him and he stepped out of the way quickly as Ser Loras walked out, gave her a small nod, and continued on his way. She watched his bouncing golden curls for only a moment before returning her gaze to the Hound, who was looking at her… well, pretty much how he always looked at her. Like he was annoyed with her. She ignored his expression, unpleasant as it was, and started walking towards her room, motioning for him to follow, but he refused.

“Come on,” she insisted quietly.

“It won’t work. And… you don’t know what happens next.”

“Yes, I do. It’s fine, we’ve already seen all of it.”

The Hound was unconvinced. “I can’t control… it. Him. Whoever. It’s not me.”

“I know. I do. But you have to try. How else will they get any peace?”

“Damn you, woman.”

Sansa’s eyes went wide. “No!” she hissed at him. “Not now!”

It was too soon. It was in the wrong place. If anyone saw them they’d think they were… oh gods, they’d think they were lovers. She needed to run, quickly, but before she could turn away from him the light became just a little bit brighter and the cold wind blew into her, and she knew it was too late. Worse, though, was how he stalked towards her, grabbed her by the hip to pull her close, and pressed his lips to hers.

Sansa had never been kissed, not in truth, but she’d kissed him so many times in her dreams that this felt far too familiar, and she lost herself to him against her will. His lips were exactly like they always were, he tasted exactly like he always did, and when his hand drifted up and over her breast she gasped into his mouth like she always would. Except she’d never done this before, and it wasn’t her, and it wasn’t him. Those weren’t her thoughts commanding her arms to pull him closer or making her lips move against his.   It wasn’t her own desire flooding her veins, she knew, yet even in the furthest corner of her mind she realized that if he lifted her skirts right now she wouldn’t try to stop him. Not that she would be able to, anyway.

“No. No, please,” the ghost within her finally, thankfully, began to protest, and she wrenched away from him till they were no longer touching. “I can’t _do_ this anymore. Don’t you understand? You cannot ask for more when you won’t give it, either.”

“I’m not asking for much,” he rasped angrily. “I just want you to stay.”

“I _can’t_ stay,” she said. “Come with me.”

The Hound recoiled noticeably at her request, a pained expression on his face. “I can’t, I took vows,” he muttered bitterly. She crossed her arms with a huff. “Don’t do that.”

She stepped towards him and looked up into his eyes. “You try to shame me for leaving but I can’t shame you for staying?”

“It’s different,” he grumbled, returning his hand to her waist as the other brushed her hair from her face. “I’d be hunted down as a traitor. You too. We’d never be safe.”

She put one of her hands on his chest. “We can go to Dorne,” she suggested softly. “Or Braavos. Somewhere that doesn’t know us. We could be anyone we want to be. We can be together.”

He moved his hands to her back, pulled her closer. “We don’t have the coin for that,” he said with a shake of his head.

“We can work.”

He looked at her with so much tenderness and sorrow her breath caught in her throat. “No. You deserve better than that.”

“Better than being with the one I love?” she pleaded as tears began to fall. “How could anything be better than that?”

He shook his head and met her eyes. “I can’t. Stay with me,” he begged.

“Come with me,” she countered. “We can go right now. Please. Come with me.”

“I can’t,” he insisted.

“You can. You can. Please.” She tugged at him desperately, trying to move him, but he remained firmly planted in place. When he finally slipped away from her the feelings slipped away as well.

Sansa ran her hands over her face, wiping away the tears of that other girl, soothing the ache of her bruised and swollen lips… oh gods, she kissed the Hound. She kissed the _Hound!_ She thought she had seen all of the argument, but realized there was a part right in the middle that she had missed. And he had _let her_ kiss him. And then he _let her_ go. He had completely _ruined_ the entire thing!

“You weren’t supposed to do that!” she seethed. “And… you were supposed to go with me!”

“I _told_ you I can’t control it!” he snarled in response.

They spun away from each other in unison, each stalking off in opposite directions. Oh gods, why did she ever think this might work? Maybe there really _wasn’t_ a way to help the ghosts. Maybe the only answer was to stay far, far away from the Hound. And maybe that wasn’t such a terrible thing.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I debated for the longest time whether I wanted to even do this chapter. It's ALMOST a throw-away chapter, in that it ALMOST doesn't add much to the story. But I'm trying to practice this particular 'style' and forcing myself to do it even if it's easier not to. So here it is. Hope it's not awful.

_I have to make him come with me._ No matter how she looked at it, the only solution was making him leave with her. It was impossible, she knew, since she was the one doing the pulling and he was the one doing the resisting, but that _had_ to be the way to fix it. _I can put him on wheels before it starts. Or Shae can stand behind him and push him. Or we can stand on the serpentine and wait for it to happen, then I can pull him down the stairs._ The thought of sending the Hound’s huge body tumbling down the steps of the serpentine made her laugh wickedly, but she immediately felt guilty even though he would deserve it. The only thing _he_ had to worry about was avoiding her, while _she_ had to deal with nightly torture. 

Because the dreams continued to plague her, never changing, running repeatedly through her mind over and over all through the night, every single night. She experienced it so many times that she’d started noticing littler details, things that were always there but she was only just now realizing- the sharp feel of his teeth on her collar bone, the way his breath tickled her ear, the slight stretch in her inner thighs as he nestled in the cradle of her hips. It got to the point where she was certain that she knew absolutely everything about this particular dream, because it was absolutely always the same. Until it wasn't.

It was during the fourth or maybe even the fifth time of the night, the point in their little mummer’s farce where he had fallen into a steady pace and was panting in her ear while she stroked his back. But this time the fog lifted slightly and her eyes focused at his neck, the muscles drawn tight and the pulse beating wildly right in front of her. And she put her lips against him, even though she’d never done that before, pressed her tongue to his skin so she could feel his heart in her mouth, tasted his salt and his sweat...

And then it was _completely_ different. He'd clutched at the back of her thigh, spread her legs even wider, pushed harder and faster as he growled in her ear. He felt bigger, somehow, and heavier, and when he came inside her he felt hotter, but she couldn't understand how or why that would be. And after their labored breathing finally leveled out, he rested his forehead on hers and whispered _'little bird...'_

And she woke up- exhausted, confused, and drenched in sweat, and she would swear to all seven heavens she could still smell him, though there was really no way she could know that for sure.

The dream itself changed, even as the frequency increased. It happened so many different ways now. Sometimes he’d go achingly slow, other times he’d pound into her so frantically it would almost hurt. He would kiss, lick, suck, and bite, sometimes all at the same time, sometimes squeezing her flesh hard enough to bruise, other times touching her lightly, almost reverently. They could be clothed, unclothed, or in varying states of dress, in the bed, against the wall, sometimes with her astride him, rolling her hips and watching his expression, sometimes with him behind her while she twisted her hands into the sheets. The sheer variety alone was almost more shocking than the acts themselves and she wondered where this vivid imagination came from, though it always seemed perfectly normal in her dreams.

And as soon as one dream ended, another would start. They’d lain together so many times in so many ways she could scarcely remember that it never truly happened, that they were only dreams. She couldn’t even _look_ at him without thinking of it- she’d see him around the keep and blush so hotly she thought she just might collapse into ash, so talking to him was completely out of the question. And she was _miserable_ … when she was awake. Her dreams, on the other hand, were where she went to escape, because in her dreams she always felt loved and safe and whole.

But she was _exhausted_. She’d go to bed early with hopes of catching up on her sleep, and then the sun would be up and Shae would be dragging her bodily out of bed. Then the handmaid would rub her down with cool cloths to soothe her skin, occasionally mentioning the marks that bloomed overnight on her neck or chest, but Sansa was just too tired to pay any notice. She started nodding off at meals, during court, while praying in the sept… it was embarrassing to be caught sleeping like that in the middle of the day, but it was also the only time the ghosts would leave her alone.

Then Myrcella left for Dorne, and Sansa had stood next to her betrothed, waving goodbye and trying not to fall asleep. Maybe it was fatigue that made her challenge Joffrey so openly, but the king had been quick to belittle her, beating her down with his vile tongue and horrid words. She was too tired to care. When they made their way back to the keep, the people in King’s Landing began pushing, and yelling, and throwing things, and soon there was an all-out riot. Someone had grabbed her and tried to pull her from her horse, and Sansa thought for sure that was the end for her. And then the Hound was there, pushing her back on her horse, slicing through her attackers, taking her to safety.

Clinging to him, her head at his back, she couldn’t help but wonder why he’d come for her, why he risked himself to save her when no one else had. Was that the ghost working within him? Or had he done it of his own accord?

She completely lost herself in her dreams that night. She couldn’t help it, not really. It was the way he touched her, held her, his fingers moving slowly over her skin somehow more intimate than before. There was no biting this time, only his breath and his lips and his tongue, bathing her body in his affection, kissing behind her ear, her neck, her collar bones, sucking a nipple into his mouth and pressing it between his tongue and his teeth, sliding a hand over the curve of her hip then up between her legs. He was everywhere, everything, invading her just as sure as the ghost had, swallowing her whole, and she was utterly in his thrall, unable and unwilling to stop it.

He held her hands and kissed her when he finally pushed into her, and even though she’d dreamed of this dozens (hundreds? _thousands?)_ of times already, this part still took her breath away. He started moving, slowly, deeply, his lips grazing against hers touching but not quite kissing, their breaths combining in the space between. Never had she felt so connected to anyone than at that moment- not in any of her dreams, not in any part of her life, not _ever_. She had to remind herself that it wasn’t really him, and it wasn’t really her, and none of it was really true, but part of her knew that maybe she wouldn’t mind if it _was_ true. She wouldn’t mind feeling connected with someone like that; she wouldn’t mind if that connection was with _him_.

It felt different, and it felt _right_ , the rhythmic churning of his hips pushing her further, lifting her higher, towards something that was glowing right in front of her with an almost blinding intensity...  and it was exciting, and it was frightening, and when she reached it she could feel her body throbbing and clenching around him in an unfamiliar way, shattering into thousands of pieces, and she cried out to him because she didn’t know what else to do. But that must have been right, somehow, because he said her name, too, and then he pushed even harder inside her, even deeper than before, and she could feel the pulsing white heat of his skin and his seed and thought for the first time that it was almost beautiful. When they finally came down together he kissed the tears from her lashes, a tenderness she'd never thought possible from him- then rolled away and pulled her close though he’d never done that before.

 _It’s just a dream,_ she told herself, her head resting on his chest, his heart thudding loudly against her ear. It didn’t mean anything, not about her or him, it was only the ghosts at work and nothing more. It was her last thought before morning came, when she opened her eyes fully rested for the first time in ages.

The dreams changed again after that- it was always only once, it was always affectionate, and it would always end with her head on his chest, and she would wake completely at rest in the morning. Which was good, since she needed her sleep as much as she needed her escape- things had become even more tense in King’s Landing as rumors swirled that Stannis would be attacking soon, and never had Sansa felt so helpless. The only thing she could think to do was pray and sleep and dream.    


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa inadvertently meets the Hound on the roof.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This picks up right after their conversation from chapter 52 in ACOK. I started with the last two lines from the book (in italics) as a sort of primer before seguing into the part that's mine. Hope that makes sense.

_Sansa backed away from him. “You’re awful.”_

_“I’m honest. It’s the world that’s awful. Now fly away, little bird, I’m sick of you peeping at me.”_

She almost turned and ran down the steps as he had said. Almost. But anger seeped across her eyes and into her body and before she could even think about it she stepped forward and pushed him. And though she hadn’t moved him even a little, he turned to her, confused.

“What are you doing?”

She put two hands square on his chest and pushed him again with all her strength, stepping into it. He yielded, not from her push, but to avoid her, and started laughing.

“What…stop that!”

He was still laughing at her, which only made her angrier, so she did it again. But this time he clamped his enormous hands around her wrists.

“Stop,” he growled, low and menacing. She froze in fear for only a moment, but then her jaw clenched in anger and she glared up at him, her heart pounding loudly in her ears.  

“Was it you?” she asked quietly, searching his eyes. “That saved me… was it you?

His lip curled into a sneer. “Who _else_ would it be?”

That was unfair- he of all people knew exactly who else it could be- but she supposed he had answered her question, as unpleasant as he was. He’d saved her. Him. Not the ghost.

“Was it you… just now… with your sword at my neck?”

She didn’t mean it as an accusation, she truly just wanted to know, to understand, but as soon as the words left her mouth she saw the flicker in his eyes and knew she’d shamed him. And she was glad of it. He released her hands with a loud sigh, but didn’t say a word, just turned from her to rest his arms on the parapet.

“I can’t tell anymore,” she said helplessly, shaking her head. Oh gods, what was she doing? Why was she still here, trying to talk to him, when he’d made it very clear he wanted her to leave? She turned to make her way down the steps but then, to her horror, a light grew around them and the air became colder, and the Hound cursed loudly because even _he_ knew what came next.

Sansa wanted to scream. She wanted to cry. She wanted to rip the ghost out of her and tell it to leave her alone. But that wasn’t how this worked, and instead she went through the same mummer’s routine she always went through, willing herself to ignore it, to block it out. She felt all the feelings she always felt, said all the things she always said, but everything was tinted with just the faintest touch of frustration and despair.  

 _It’s not truly him_ , she told herself when his mouth covered hers and his hand slid over her breast. _And it’s not truly me._ If she could just remember that, then this wouldn’t be so horrifying. Looking into his pleading eyes, feeling his heart, holding his hands… it wasn’t real. It wasn’t. As much as she could feel the love swelling in her heart, the desire for him and how she wanted to stay with him, another part of her was ready for this to be over, because she couldn’t _do_ this anymore. These ghosts were destroying her, chipping away at her psyche, and when the light and the feelings finally lifted away she was left standing with her back to him, weeping softly.

The Hound reacted with all the grace and diplomacy with which he handled everything, cursing loudly and throwing the wineskin then taking his frustrations out on her.

“Why are you crying?” he shouted, clearly annoyed by her display of weakness.

“I don’t know!” she yelled back. “I don’t… I’m not even sure if these are _my_ tears!”

Gods, what was wrong with her? What was wrong with _him?_ Why did he have to be so hateful all of the time? He was the only one who truly understood how unnerving these ghosts were, but could he give her any kind of reassurance, anything to let her know that she would be fine, that _they_ would be fine? No, he could not. Not _ever_.

“You need to get back to your room.” She _did_ need to get back to her room; she didn’t want to be here, fighting with him, frightened of him. But she was just so _angry_ with him.

“I don’t want to,” she said defiantly.

It was apparently the wrong thing to say, because he grabbed her by the arm faster than she thought possible and started dragging her down the steps to her chambers.

“No,” she protested, slapping at his hand feebly. “You can’t go with me. What… what if it happens again?”

“It won’t,” he rasped without looking at her. “It doesn’t happen more than once.”

“The _dreams_ happen more than once,” she countered, and immediately regretted it. Why would she even hint to him that she was having dreams? He stopped and spun her around till she was facing him, and leaned in to look at her, his one good eyebrow raised.

 _“Dreams?”_ he growled low, eyes wide and slightly unfocused from the wine he’d been drinking. She knew those eyes, had seen them hundreds of times dark with desire, but now, the way he was looking at her… it was more than latent curiosity that made him ask, more than shame that made her hesitate, and when he cautiously pushed her hair back from her neck to look for his marks she realized with a gasp that he’d been having the dreams, too. No, not just having them, too- they’d been having the dreams _together_.

“Oh gods!” she shrieked, covering her face with her hands as he pulled her the rest of the way to her room. And he was right- it _didn’t_ happen again. They finished the journey to her chambers without incident and he shoved her into her room and slammed the door without another word, reassuring or otherwise.

She was trembling, she was so upset; embarrassed, afraid, unsettled. Why did she think this was romantic? Why did these ghosts poison her dreams and interfere with her life? Why did they torture her when all she wanted to do was help them?

_“You can trust him.”_

Sansa gasped and spun around to see the source of the voice, but there was no one, and nothing, else in her room with her. She turned her head to and fro, examining the shadows, the corners, the furniture…

 _“You can trust him,”_ the voice came again, though she felt it more than heard it, the sound something like the buzz of a bee against her ear.

“I don’t even _know_ him,” she said out loud, to whom she wasn’t sure, but the room was silent, the buzzing gone.

 _I’m going mad._ It was clear, now, that was what was happening to her. And why wouldn’t it? After losing her family in spectacular fashion, being humiliated on a daily basis, beaten for the amusement of the man she was supposed to marry… the only wonder was why she hadn’t lost her wits earlier. It was almost reassuring knowing that all the confusing events of the past turn of the moon were nothing more than the product of a mind gone mad. She started giggling at the thought, since that’s what half-wits were supposed to do, hugged herself close, dabbed at her eyes with the cloth in her hand…

The cloth in her hand?

She hadn’t been holding anything at all just moments before, but now she was clutching a bloody piece of white fabric, small and dirty and ragged around the edges. She knew exactly what it was, though she hadn’t seen it since the day she received it- that was her blood, and that was his handkerchief, the one he’d used to dab at her lip when she was a mere heartbeat from pushing Joffrey to his death. Her death too, mayhap. He must have known what she intended to do, but all he had done was pull her back and wipe the blood from her face. A knight like Ser Meryn would never have done that, but the Hound… he’d protected her in the only way he could have.

He didn’t have to. He didn’t have to do _any_ of it. He didn’t have to protect her on top of the battlements that day, but he still did. He didn’t have to save her during the bread riot, but he still did. He didn’t have to lie for her at Joffrey’s nameday tourney, but he still did. No _knight_ had spoken up when Joffrey had her stripped and beaten, no _knight_ moved to cover her. No one but him.

But… he was so _mean_. And _hateful_. When he spoke to her he belittled her, mocked her for her courtesies, teased her about songs and love stories, threatened and frightened her. Not to mention how he’d _just_ admitted that he loved killing people and held his sword to her throat. He was _awful_ to her, always. The only time he was ever kind was in her dreams, and those weren’t even real.

Although… that wasn’t truly how it felt _lately_. And judging by the marks on her body- the marks that he knew were there- _some_ of it was real.

“I don’t understand,” she said weakly, to no one in particular. And this time when the tears fell, she knew they were her own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not in love with this chapter. Not sure why. Maybe cause there's no jokes. :-)


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Battle of the Blackwater

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to everyone who read and left kudos and comments, especially for sticking with it through the repetitive beginning. I hope you find this ending satisfying. I tried really hard to tie up all the little loose ends but you know, it's a ghost story, so if it doesn't make sense just go with it, ok?
> 
> THANK YOU!!!

_Some instinct made her lift her hand and cup his cheek with her fingers. The room was too dark for her to see him, but she could feel the stickiness of the blood, and a wetness that was not blood. “Little bird,” he said once more, his voice raw and harsh as steel on stone. Then he rose from the bed. Sansa heard cloth ripping, followed by the softer sound of retreating footsteps._

She was cold, so very cold, and the light that soon flooded the room was so bright it hurt her eyes. And the feelings- it was all the same feelings as before, but now… she just felt so _angry_ , more than ever in her life. And it wasn’t just anger but something else as well, and after several heartbeats, she recognized what it was: fear. She was afraid, now, afraid of what would happen next, afraid of losing more than she was capable of losing. And she understood that, because she understood loss; she’d lost so much already.

He was at the door, unmoving, one hand on the latch, and she scrambled quickly out of her bed and stalked towards him.

“You would leave me now?” she cried angrily. “After everything?”

His hand dropped from the door and he spun around to face her. “I _have_ to leave,” he insisted breathlessly. “Why would I stay?”

“Stay for _me,”_ she exclaimed. “Am I not enough?”

“That’s not it, and you know it.  It’s just too hard to be here, seeing you, knowing I can never have you. Just… don’t forget me. Promise you won’t, and I’ll not forget you, either.

“Liar!” she spat, her voice sounding shrill even to her own ears.

“I’m not lying,” he insisted. He reached for her hand, but she pulled it away.

“You’re still _leaving_ ,” she snapped.

“I _have_ to,” he whispered urgently, pleading with his eyes for her understanding. “That doesn’t mean I don’t love you.”

“It does if you’re leaving me,” she shouted.

“That’s not fair. _You_ are the one who is incapable of giving me what I want. I’ve given you far more than you’ve given me.” He turned to walk away, but she caught up with him quickly.

“You’ve given me words. Words!” she barked, her arm dropping in front of him as her hand slammed into the door, blocking him from leaving the room. She went up on her toes so she could reach his ear. “Words are wind, my love,” she growled.

“It’s more than that,” he rasped softly, taking her hand and pressing it over his heart. “How can you doubt me? Can’t you feel it? I’d stay here forever with you, if I could. I’d spend my life taking care of you, if I could. But I can’t.”

Sansa felt her heart growing heavier; she raised her hand to his hip, gripping it tightly and pulling him closer as her fingers curled into his breastplate. “Damn you, woman.”

Kissing him was not easy since he was so much taller than her, but he met her halfway. Her hand dragged through the sticky blood on his armor, and he gasped into her mouth even though he couldn’t possibly feel what she was doing.  After a moment he pulled away.

“No. No, please,” he insisted, twisting his body free from her hold. “I can’t _do_ this anymore. Don’t you understand? You cannot ask for more when you won’t give it, either.”

“You can’t say that you love me then leave!” _Oh gods, please don’t leave me._

“I can’t stay. Come with me.”

Something squeezed her heart, and she recoiled as if she’d been hit. “I can’t, I took vows.” She heard the Hound huff, saw him cross his arms, and felt the anger rise in her again. “Don’t do that.”

“You try to shame me for leaving but I can’t shame you for staying?” he countered, cocking his head haughtily.

“It’s different,” she insisted, putting a hand at his waist while the other brushed his hair from his face. “I’d be hunted down as a traitor. You too. We’d never be safe.”

He placed his hand over her heart. “We can go to Dorne. Or Braavos. Somewhere that doesn’t know us. We could be anyone we want to be. We can be together.”

She wanted to. She did, but she only shook her head. “We don’t have the coin for that.”

“We can work.”

“No. You deserve better than that.”

“Better than being with the one I love?” he asked pitifully. “How could anything be better than that?” Tears were streaming down his cheeks, breaking her apart, but still she could only shake her head.

“Stay with me,” she begged him.

“Come with me,” he pleaded. “Right now, before anyone knows. Please. Come with me.”

“I can’t.” _Don’t cry, not now, don’t let him see you cry._

“You can,” he rasped softly, desperately, and grabbed her by the hand. “You can. Please.”

Sansa should stay, she knew that. The _knight_ knew it, too. But the Hound was insistent, tugging at her, firm but gentle, and as he pulled her into his arms and out the door she could feel the shift inside her. She couldn’t stop him, but she didn’t _want_ to stop him, and neither did the knight. It was right; this was right, she knew because it _felt_ right. So she uttered no protest when they fled the keep together, when he drew his sword to slay any who tried to stop them, when they reached the stables and mounted his huge black stallion. She held tightly to him, as he held tightly to her, escaping quickly with less opposition than she would have imagined. She still felt the emotions of her ghost, the sorrow and desperation, but there was something new, too. It wasn’t till they were far from the city and the Hound reared his beast up into a stop that she recognized what it was: relief. And… a little bit of happiness, too.

He must have been feeling the same, judging by the look in his eyes, and they reached for each other at the same time, arms pulling the other tighter. He kissed her hard, lips firmly against hers, his tongue pressing into her mouth and tasting every bit of her. He kissed her with all the passion of a man in love, and she returned that passion, because she felt it, too. And it was… _right_. It felt like the missing piece of the puzzle, her lips against his, the love and desire and every single other emotion their ghosts had foisted on them and above it all, she felt _whole_.

The heartache receded with every stroke of his tongue, the fear and anxiety ebbing till there was little more than that same feeling of completion tempered slightly by happiness and desire, and she realized with a start that these emotions were her own. She could feel the difference, now, in him as well as her. The ghosts were gone; she didn’t need anyone to tell her they were gone forever.

Whatever it was that made them start no longer mattered, because something new was making them continue, and it wasn’t something she had any interest in fighting. So she let this new wave overtake her, cresting up and over the both of them as they clung to each other and spoke in the way that lovers do- with their hands, and their mouths, and their hearts.

She couldn’t say which one of them broke the kiss, but that felt right, too. He made no real move to release her from his arms, though he did soften the embrace enough for her to pull back and look in his eyes.

“Sandor?” He looked so confused, so uncertain, she felt a little sorry for him, because for the first time since leaving Winterfell she felt no confusion at all. “It’s just us, now,” she whispered to him, brushing the hair gently from his eyes. “I… I don’t think… they’ll be bothering us anymore.”

He closed his eyes for only a moment and when he opened them the confusion was gone, replaced with the same combination of anger and irritation he always wore, not just for her but for everyone. Only now it was maybe… a little softer.

“I can’t take you back, little bird,” he muttered bitterly, with only a trace of the tenderness he’d shown before.

She shook her head at him, but never let her eyes leave his. “I don’t want to go back. I want to go home.” And that was the truth: she wanted to be here, with him, and she knew he wanted her here, too. So she didn’t wait for his answer, just leaned in and kissed him lightly, because she knew she could, and because she wanted to. And he didn’t answer, just pulled her close to him and eased his horse into a trot.

She was so happy she could just weep! She did it- she gave the ghosts what they needed to find peace, and in return they had sent a true knight to rescue her.   And sure, he wasn't exactly what she would have imagined, but... that was the purpose of the dreams, right? To show her what he was truly like? He was strong, and brave, and fierce, yes, but in her dreams she found out he was also thoughtful and kind. So in that way, it was like the dreams were _necessary_. In fact, one could almost say they were _required_ , that having the dreams was what saved her life. They were _lifesaving_ , really, and… the _only_ way to learn to trust him was by having those dreams. Hundreds and hundreds of very vivid and imaginative dreams. Right? Because she used to just think of him as the Hound, a mean-tempered beast. But now, in this moment, he was Sandor, warm and loving Sandor, a man who was so sweet, so considerate, so...

“So…” he rasped above her. “Does this mean there’ll be no more dreams?”

…and the moment was gone. She pushed away from him and looked up to see his face twisted hideously into a knowing little smirk, tongue planted firmly in cheek. “You just _had_ to ruin it, didn’t you?” she scolded him with a sigh.

“If you made the dreams stop, I’d say _you’re_ the one who ruined it,” he growled back, leering down at her with an impossibly smug expression.

Sansa blushed and stifled a giggle with her hand- oh gods, why would she laugh at that? He was being awful and she was only encouraging it. “We’ll be sleeping at different times, just to be sure,” she teased him.

“So you say,” he scoffed. “As soon as I’m sleeping you’ll be curled up right next to me.”

She giggled again, wrinkling her nose up in a futile effort to hide it, then quickly changed the subject. “What are we going to _do?”_ she lamented. “I didn’t bring anything with me- no clothes or shoes or jewelry. And Joffrey’s going to be looking for us.”

“We can get you more things later,” he muttered, unmoved by her worries.

“We don’t have the coin for that,” she said, fighting a smirk.

He turned towards her and raised his one good eyebrow. “We can work.”

“No,” she said, falling into the familiar pattern. “You deserve better than that.”

“Better than being with the one I love?” he cooed sarcastically.

“How could anything be better than that?” they said in unison, then laughed together.

“Buggering fools,” he grumbled derisively, though the smile never left his eyes. “What drivel.”

“What? No, it was beautiful!” she protested. “Like Florian and Jonquil. Or Jenny of Oldstones. Or Queen Naerys and Prince Aemon! Do you know their story? I can tell it to you on our way to Winterfell.”

He looked at her as if to gauge whether or not she was japing but she wasn’t, so he rolled his eyes and sighed loudly in resignation. “Gonna be a long buggering journey,” he complained with a shake of his head, but he pulled her closer and kissed the top of her head so she knew he didn’t truly mind.

And it was so romantic! Almost like a song.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Full disclosure: the twist ending was how the BtVS episode ended as well, one of my favorite episodes.


End file.
